Poul Anderson: Star of the Sea

The Roman had flushed and knotted his hands. “It was insolent. We’ll not reward rebellion. We cannot.”

Everard softened his tone. “It seems to . . . those whose mouth I’m being . . . that you’ve punished it adequately. If the Batavi and their allies return to their allegiance and to quietness beyond the river, haven’t you reached your objective? What they ask in exchange is no more than they owe to their people to get. No decimation, no enslavements, no captives for the triumph or the arena. Instead, amnesty for all, including Civilis. Restoration of tribal lands, where these are occupied. Correction of the abuses that brought the revolt on in the first place. This means, mostly, reasonable tribute, local autonomy, access to trade, and an end to conscription. Given that, you’ll once again get as many volunteers enlisting as Rome can use.”

“That’s no small set of demands,” Cerialis said. “It goes beyond my authority.”

Ah, he’s willing to consider it. A thrill coursed through Everard. He leaned forward. “General, you’re of Vespasian’s house, Vespasian for whom Civilis fought too. The emperor will listen to you. Everybody says he’s a hardheaded man who’s interested in making things work, not in hollow glory. The Senate will . . . listen to the emperor. You can bring this treaty about, general, if you want to, if you’ll make the effort. You can be remembered not as a Varus but as a Germanicus.”

Cerialis peered slit-eyed across the table. “You talk almighty knowing for a barbarian,” he said.

“I’ve been around, sir,” Everard answered.

Oh, I have, I have, around the whole globe, up and down the centuries. Most recently at the wellspring of your sorest woes, Cerialis.

How long ago it already felt, that idyll on Öland, no, on the Eyn. Twenty-five years past by the calendar. Hlavagast and Viduhada and most of those who had been so hospitable were likeliest dead by now, bones in the earth and names on tongues wearing down toward oblivion. Gone with them were the pain and puzzlement left behind by children whom strangeness had called away. But for Everard it was scarcely a month since he and Floris bade farewell to Laikian. Man and wife, wanderers from the far South who had gotten passage over the sea for themselves and their horses, and would like to pitch their tent for a while close to this friendly thorp. . . . It was extraordinary, therefore enchanting; it caused people to talk more freely than ever before in their lives; but there were also the hours alone, in the tent or out on the summery heath. . . . Afterward the Patrol agents got floggingly busy.

“And I have my connections,” Everard said.

The histories, the data files, the great coordinating computers, the experts of the Time Patrol. The knowledge that this is the proper configuration of a plenum that has powerful negative feedback. We’ve identified the random factor that could bring on an avalanching change; what we must do is damp it.

“Hm,” Cerialis said. “I’ll want a fuller account.” He cleared his throat. “Later. Today we’ll stick to business. I do want my men out of the mud.”

I find that I kind of like this guy. In many ways he reminds me of George Patton. Yes, we can dicker.

Cerialis weighed his words. “Tell your lordlings this, and have them pass it on to Civilis. I see one big stumbling block. You speak of the Germans beyond the Rhine. I can’t concede what he wants and pull the legions out while they are faunching for somebody to whistle them up all over again.”

“He would not, I assure you,” Everard said. “Under the conditions proposed, he’d have won what he was fighting for, or at least a decent compromise. Who else might start a new war?”

Cerialis’s mouth tightened. “Veleda.”

“The sibyl among the Bructeri?”

“The witch. D’you know, I’ve thought about a strike into that country just to seize her. But she’d vanish into the woods.”

“And if you did somehow succeed, it’d be like snatching a hornets’ nest.”

Cerialis nodded. “Every crazy tribesman from the Rhine to the Suebian Sea up in arms.” He meant the Baltic, and he was right. “But it might well be worse, for my grandchildren if not me, to let her go on spewing her venom amongst them.” He sighed. “Except for that, the furor could die down. But as is—”

“I think,” said Everard weightily, “if Civilis and his allies are promised honorable terms, I think we can get her to call for peace.” Cerialis goggled. “You mean that?”

“Try it,” Everard said. “Negotiate with her as well as with the male leaders. I can carry word between you.”

Cerialis shook his head. “We couldn’t leave her running loose. Too dangerous. We’d have to keep an eye on her.”

“But not a hand.”

Cerialis blinked, then chuckled. “Ha! I see what you mean. You’ve got a gift of gab, Everardus. True, if ever we arrested her or anything like that, we’d likely get a whole new rebellion. But what if she provoked it? How can we know she’ll behave herself?”

“She will, once she’s reconciled with Rome.”

“What’s that worth? I know barbarians. Flighty as geese.” Evidently it didn’t occur to the general that he might offend the emissary, unless he didn’t care. “From what I’ve gathered, that’s a war goddess she serves. What if Veleda takes it into her head that this Bellona’s hollering for blood once more? We could have another Boadicea on our hands.”

A sore point with you, huh? Everard sipped of his wine. The sweetness glowed down his throat, invoking summers and southlands against the weather that ramped outside. “Give it a try,” he said. “What can you lose by exchanging messages with her? I think a settlement that everybody can live with is possible.”

Whether in superstition or in metaphor, Cerialis replied, surprisingly quietly, “That will depend on the goddess, won’t it?”

The early sunset smoldered above the forest. Boughs were like black bones athwart it. Puddles in field and paddock glowed dull red with it beneath a greenish sky as cold as the wind that eddied whimpering across them. A flight of crows passed. Their hoarse cries sounded for a while after the dusk had swallowed them up.

A hind carrying hay between stack and house shivered, not only because of the weather, when he saw Wael-Edh go by. She was not unkindly, in her stark way, but she was in league with the Powers, and now she walked from the halidom. What there had she heard and said? For months no man had fared hither to speak with her, as often erstwhile. By day she paced her grounds or sat under a tree and brooded, alone. It was surely at her own behest—but why? This was a grim time, even for the Bructeri. Too many of their men had come home from Batavian or Frisian lands with tales of mishap or woe, or had not come home at all. Could the gods be turning from their spaewife? The hind muttered a luck-spell and hastened his steps.

Her tower loomed dark ahead of the woman. The warrior on watch dipped his spear to her. She nodded and opened the door. In the room beyond, a pair of thralls sat cross-legged at a low hearthfire, palms held close. Smoke drifted around bitter until it found its outlet. Their breath mingled with it, wan in the light of two lamps. They scrambled to their feet. “Does my lady want food or drink?” the man asked.

Wael-Edh shook her head. “I will sleep,” she answered.

“We will guard your dreaming well,” the girl said. It was needless, nobody save Heidhin would dare climb the ladder unbidden, but she was new here. She gave her mistress one of the lamps and Wael-Edh went up.

A ghost of daylight lingered in a window covered with thin-scraped gut, and the flame burned yellow. Nonetheless the loft-room was already heavy with gloom, wherein her things crouched like trolls underground. Not yet wishing for her shut-bed, she put the lamp on a shelf and sat down on her high three-legged witch-seat, cloak drawn tight. Her gaze sought the shifty shadows.